Thurston was frightfully changed, the sufferings of the last month seemed to have made him old—his countenance was worn, his voice hollow, and his manner abstracted and uncertain.
"Edith," he asked, as he took the chair near her head, "do you feel stronger this morning?"
"Yes—I always do in the forenoon"
"Do you feel well enough to talk of Miriam and her future?"
"Oh, yes."
"What do you propose to do with her?"
"I shall leave her to Aunt Henrietta—she will never let the child want."
"But Mrs. Waugh is quite an old lady now. Jacquelina is insane, the commodore and Mrs. L'Oiseau scarcely competent to take care of themselves—and Luckenough a sad, unpromising home for a little girl."
"I know it—oh! I know it; why do you speak of it, since I can do no otherwise?"
"To point out how you may do otherwise, dear Edith. It would have been cruel to mention it else."